


Time's Up

by hutchabelle



Category: The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchabelle/pseuds/hutchabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is it ever too late for soulmates?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time's Up

_ _

_This story is dedicated to all those who want to and can't._

 

I was ten years old the first time I had a maternal instinct, but I didn’t realize that’s what it was at the time. All I knew was that my heart clutched when I witnessed my younger sister Prim crying over something that really mattered, and I knew I’d do almost anything to never have to witness it again.

 

The good news was that I wouldn’t have to. The bad news was that Prim would never weep for the same reason because we only had one father, and she was crying because he died—killed in a work accident, an explosion that made national news.

 

Everything changed after that. My mom broke down, and I became an adult way too soon.

 

That’s probably why I convinced myself I didn’t really want kids. I grew up fairly normally with one sibling and my parents happily married. I had it in my head that I’d do the same as my role models. I’d fall in love in my early twenties, get married, find a career, and have a couple of children. That was “normal,” right? That’s what the standard was in my life and in the lives of those around me.

 

When my father passed and I unwittingly and unwillingly became the head of the household, my responsibilities multiplied. I should have been playing in the meadow with my sister, catching raindrops and snowflakes on my tongue. Instead, I learned to balance a checkbook, hunt deer and rabbits in the woods on our farm, and plant a garden to supplement our food supply. I learned to cook and treated the burns I received with aloe vera plants my mother grew in the kitchen window.

 

I resented all of it. All of it except Prim, that is. I adored her. She was the only person I knew I really loved after my father’s death, and that shaped me more than I could have imagined at the time.

 

The junior high and high school years were hard. I mean, they’re difficult for almost everyone unless you’re one of the popular crowd, and I wasn’t really. Well-known, probably. Definitely notorious when my bristly personality became even more abrupt during puberty, but people didn’t really seem to like me all that much. I was too standoffish, too serious, too different. Maybe I was too hard on myself at the time because now I wonder if there was also a little bit of admiration as well, but that didn’t cross my mind during the hardest years of my life.

 

I had two real friends back then. One was Madge. Her father was the superintendent of schools, and she got a lot of flak for her good grades and success in a number of extracurricular activities. She was very smart and incredibly driven, but none of our classmates wanted to admit it. I guess it’s easier to unfairly discredit someone than it is to celebrate that person’s talents. What most people didn’t know was that she spent her free time helping her very busy father take care of her clinically depressed mother, a woman who survived the trauma of her twin’s murder by self-medicating. Madge’s life wasn’t any easier than anyone else’s in spite of her father’s position.

 

My best friend Gale was the only person who really understood me while I was stuck in my hometown. Our fathers had worked together at the coal power plant, and he’d been forced into a similar situation as I had. Unlike my remaining parent, his mom continued to work when she became a widow, but he had more siblings than I did which meant more mouths to feed. Social Security and all the other methods of assistance couldn’t begin to make life okay for either of our families.

 

Gale became my confidant and partner. He couldn’t keep a plant alive to save his life, but he could set snares that always resulted in fresh game even if we couldn’t bring something down with our bows or guns. Hunting season restrictions hampered our ability to provide as much as we wanted to for our families.

 

When Gale graduated and went to work, I saw him a lot less. It was strange because I didn’t really miss him so much as I missed the way things had been, the comfort I received from a familiar person and voice. I missed the way he tugged my braid to tease me but also to be able to communicate silently when we were in the woods together. I even romanticized his annoying nickname for me—Catnip, as if I would be named after _that_ kind of plant.

 

Of course, I still remember how scared and worried I was when I got the phone call that he’d been injured on the job. He worked at a meatpacking plant, which seemed terribly ironic to me, and his boss ordered him to work even though his equipment wasn’t functioning properly. When I got the news that he’d been hurt, I rushed to the hospital to be by his side. Maybe maternal instinct number two was the reason I was so upset. He needed to be cared for, and I wanted to be the one to do it. Somehow through that experience, we tricked ourselves into thinking we were in love.

 

Tragedies do seem to be a common factor in my maternal instinct rearing its head, now that I think about it—my father’s death as a cause for my adoration for Prim and Gale’s accident as an impetus for my devotion to him. He recovered quickly and was back on the job within a few weeks, but we were well on our way to a serious relationship that lasted several years when he clocked in for the first time after being hurt.

 

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Trust me, I do. Gale’s an attractive guy. He was then, and he still is from the pictures I’ve seen of him online and from members of both our families. I’ve been told I’m not the most unattractive person either, and we both certainly had enough fire in our temperaments that no one would have been surprised if things got…uh, a little hot, if you will.

 

Somehow, though, that never happened between us. I mean, things _happened_. I’m not a prude, and Gale was a typical early twenty-something male. We made out a lot, got naked together, tried pretty much everything, but somehow we never quite went “all the way.”

 

All the way. It’s such a strange reference for sex. Isn’t all the way really a euphemism for an orgasm? So, why does that phrase only apply to vaginal intercourse? I’ve never understood it, but that’s not really the point, I guess.

 

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that we never did consummate our relationship with that kind of sex despite the other stuff we did. At the time, I was gripped with a fear of getting pregnant that was so oppressive, I could barely breathe when he tried to… Well, you know. I didn’t have a problem with his anatomy, as long as he didn’t ever try to stick it inside anything other than my hand or mouth. I knew we were safe that way, and that’s all I really cared about in the long run. My maternal instincts didn’t extend to potential unwanted children.

 

I think Gale always hoped I’d change my mind, but we’d been together for almost eight years before he realized I wasn’t going to budge on the situation. He wanted kids—despite the hardships of his life and the almost certain cycle of poverty into which we’d fall if we brought children into the world. He seemed to think being a dad would be worth it, but I was still too scarred from being forced to play mom to my little sister and my own mother to want to actually be one. I wanted off food stamps and welfare. I didn’t want to need that assistance for the rest of my life, even though I was grateful for it.

 

Maybe I was naïve. It’s not like other people in my situation haven’t been able to enjoy good lives and raise a family, but I didn’t want to risk it. I didn’t want to have children, and I didn’t love Gale enough to change my mind—if that’s even how it works.

 

When he realized I was serious, he regretfully broke it off, but that didn’t really end our relationship. We continued to seek each other out when the physical urges got to be too much. We still didn’t sleep together, but we spent a lot of time making sure the other was happy. Again, I know it sounds strange and certainly not the norm, but it worked for us. Until he found someone else, that is.

 

You should have seen him when he discovered her. His face lit up like a two year old who’s just been presented with an entire birthday cake, and he fell hard. It only took him a month to move past the pain he said I caused him and propose to her. A year later, they were pregnant, and I sighed in relief that it wasn’t me.

 

I was happy for him. Really, I was, and I was also happy for me. I felt like I was in charge of myself. I felt like I had it all figured out. I didn’t really want any more than I had. I was daughter to a mom who’d finally returned to herself; my little sister was about to graduate college and was planning her own wedding to a really nice guy; and I had a career I was proud of and could enjoy for a few years before I needed any further schooling.

 

There was no reason at all for me to feel a tiny glimmer of sadness at Prim’s wedding. I was thrilled to be her maid of honor and see her happy beyond words, but then she got pregnant too. And then so did our only female cousin. One by one the male cousins married as well, and they and their wives had babies. I was halfway through my master’s program and seven years removed from a relationship with my only boyfriend before I realized I was the only one still single on both my mom’s and dad’s side.

 

Still, that didn’t bother me. I enjoyed my life—living on my own, traveling when I wasn’t working or going to school, spending time with friends, and loving on my sister’s kid as he learned to walk on shaky toddler legs.

 

Strangely enough, it wasn’t my nephew or any of my cousin’s kids who got to me. Instead, it was a detergent commercial that had a young child, maybe four or five years old, with wavy blonde hair, gorgeous, deep set blue eyes, and a lopsided grin that captivated me. I sat on the couch as the child actor ran to his mother, who picked him up and spun him around in a shaft of light. Something pitched in my heart that day, and I felt the third and strongest maternal pull I had yet experienced.

 

I’m embarrassed to admit that I spent the next several years observing men who could have been that child’s father and imagining being with each of them. The solitary nights spurred a lot of frustration, and I tossed and turned with dreams of strong arms and locks of golden hair flashing through my sub-consciousness. I lost count of the times I woke up with my thighs pressed tightly together and my chest heaving with breathy moans.

 

My attitude took a turn for the worse about that time. I grew increasingly irritable and fought bouts of anger. I couldn’t pinpoint anything particular that was wrong, but I knew I wasn’t happy. Instead of enjoying my time alone, I became sullen if I stayed more than one night at home by myself. Instead of looking forward to spending time with my sister and other relatives at family gatherings, I dreaded going because I knew I’d get the third degree about whether or not I’d met anyone. One of my particularly clueless aunts actually asked me if I had “anyone picked out yet.” Apparently she thought men could be chosen the same way one buys groceries—off a shelf.

 

Months passed, and then a year turned into two. I had entered my early thirties by that point, and I’d never been so sexually frustrated. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have opportunities to scratch the itch, but somehow I couldn’t ever quite engage in a one night stand. It wasn’t the sex I really wanted as much as I longed for a connection with another human being. Okay, I wanted both, but I knew a quickie or two wouldn’t ever be enough.

 

I didn’t even realize how bad things had gotten until finally one of my co-workers, a smart-mouthed woman named Johanna, took me out for a drink after a particularly rough week at work. She didn’t mince words, and I still blush when I remember her bluntness.

 

“When’s the last time you got laid?” she demanded, and I almost spit out my drink in surprise.

 

“What—what do you mean?” I sputtered through a coughing fit.

 

“What do you mean, ‘what do I mean,’ brainless?” she growled. “I mean, when’s the last time you got off? You’re pissy as hell all the time, and it seems like a lot of stress to me. When’s the last time you were flat on your back with your feet in the air, holding onto your ankles with a man pounding into you?”

 

I sat there with my mouth gaping and the drink forgotten in my hand until she snapped her fingers in front of my eyes.

 

“What? Are you into girls instead?” she challenged curtly, and I blushed a deep red.

 

“No! No, I’m not into girls,” I mumbled in embarrassment. “I like guys.”

 

“Then find yourself one. Soon. Your attitude sucks, and I’m tired of you biting my head off every day.”

 

Johanna’s words didn’t upset me so much as they made me think, and it’s dangerous when I do that. Too much time in my own head allows me to wallow, and that’s what I did.

 

A month or so later, she pulled me aside a few days before Christmas and handed me a small box wrapped in cheerful candy cane striped paper.

 

“Don’t open it until you get home, and put it to good use, brainless. I can’t believe you don’t already have one of these,” she scoffed before heading out the door for her holiday break.

 

When I got home, I peeled back the paper and was shocked to find a bright green vibrator with a dozen or so batteries. I sat on the couch for several minutes before I could figure out if I was grateful Johanna cared enough about me to want me to feel, uh, relieved or something, or if I was humiliated beyond belief. I think the answer was both with the scale leaning much heavier toward the latter option.

 

It took several more days before I took the present out of its packaging, but I didn’t regret it once I did. A whole new world opened up for me, but I still wasn’t really happy. Johanna’s gift may have eased my cravings, but it didn’t make me any less lonely.

 

It took me that long, almost a decade, to realize my baby sister getting married hit me harder than I thought it had. Looking back now, I can admit that, but I sure didn’t want to when I was going through it. I think maybe I’d tried to convince myself that I didn’t really want to find someone, despite my intense loneliness. It made things easier that way, so I repressed my unhappiness and told myself that I enjoyed being on my own. And I did. That wasn’t necessarily a lie; it just wasn’t the entire truth either.

 

Prim was so happy, and the love she and her husband displayed for each other warmed everyone around them as the years passed. I certainly didn’t want to admit I was jealous or acknowledge the pang of despair I felt when I attended events with them and realized I might not ever get the chance to participate in those things with a husband and kids of my own.

 

Despite their marital bliss, several years passed before Prim gave birth to her second child, my niece. My nephew had just entered that awkward stage all boys go through before they hit puberty, but Prim’s daughter smelled like Heaven when I put my nose to her soft skin. I wanted to be happy, but instead I spiraled further. I was 38 at that point, and when I held that beautiful baby in my arms, I felt a pull so intense that I cried myself to sleep that night.

 

I wondered at the time if I was a horrible person, if the jealousy and anger and sadness I felt toward my sister and her happiness meant that I didn’t deserve what she had. It’s amazing how easy it is to beat oneself up when faced with real human emotions, and that’s what I felt. I was stripped to the bare bones of my humanity and finally accepted that I did want to be with someone I loved, and I wanted to have children with them. I wanted my own family, and I wanted to be a mother that my child never resented the way I had my own.

 

The problem was that I didn’t have any way to make that happen. I’d barely dated during my thirties, not because I didn’t want to but because no one really seemed to be compatible to my lifestyle. The men who did approach me came off as brash and arrogant, and I couldn’t stand to link myself to them platonically, let alone romantically or physically.

 

My friends and family tried to be supportive. I can’t fault them for wanting me to be okay, and I knew I wasn’t. I felt like life had passed me by. I had a career and people who loved me. In other words, I had everything that should have made me happy except a life with someone who loved me the way I wanted to be loved.

 

I spent the next two years going through the motions. I got up every day and did my job; I spent time with people who cared about me; I traveled; I revisited my love of archery by frequenting local shooting ranges; I signed up for singing lessons after having stopped exercising my voice after my father was killed. I did everything I knew how to do to fill the gaping hole I felt in my life.

 

Thankfully, some of it worked. Some days, even some weeks, I was happy. I smiled more than I scowled, which wasn’t necessarily my standard behavior, and even convinced the most cynical people in my life that I felt fine. Even Johanna thought I was doing okay, until she realized I wasn’t. She approached me at work a month or two after I celebrated my fortieth birthday and made my world stop.

 

“Hey, brainless,” she teased somewhat affectionately as she stopped by my desk. “Do you have time for a drink tonight? I have some news.”

 

I narrowed my eyes at her and nodded. “Sure. The Seam? Meet you at the elevator at five.”

 

It wasn’t until we were settled into a booth at our favorite bar and Johanna ordered a glass of water instead of her normal gin and tonic that I felt a spark of panic in the pit of my stomach.

 

“Katniss,” she started and paused. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard my real name from her mouth.

 

“Katniss,” she began again, “I have some news.”

 

“You mentioned that,” I managed to choke in a tone more sarcastic than I intended.

 

Her gaze swept across my face before she said more quietly than I’d ever heard her speak, “Katniss, I’m going to have a baby.”

 

I pretended to listen as she explained that she hadn’t intended for this to happen, but she realized she was pregnant a month after her on again off again boyfriend left for a tour in Afghanistan and decided he didn’t want to maintain a relationship with her. When she told him the news, he thanked her for the information but politely declined any further responsibility as the baby’s father.

 

“A month after?” I asked in shock. “How far along are you?”

 

She shrugged a bit more nonchalantly than I think she intended and answered, “A few months. Fourteen weeks, the doctor said. Is that three months or something?”

 

I nodded, but I could barely speak after that.  I was happy for her. I really was, but I also despaired that even my most pessimistic, sarcastic friend was entering a phase of life I couldn’t join.

 

I’m pretty sure I hid it well. Johanna clearly wasn’t trying to upset me, and she asked more than once how I felt about her news. She didn’t want to rub it in, but I don’t think she really understood the conflict that existed inside me. If a baby could soften even the hard-hearted Johanna, then how could I be anything but happy about her situation?

 

Except that I was anything but happy. I was devastated. As countless acquaintances throughout my life got married and had children or gave birth as single parents, I always thought I could depend on Johanna to understand my predicament because she was in the same boat. Now that boat was empty except for me, and I wanted to scream my frustration.

 

I thought about other options—adoption, IVF, freezing my eggs. The problem was that I couldn’t really afford any of those options as I struggled with finances, and there was another dilemma as well.

 

A few months before my fortieth birthday, my cycle changed. I’d always been disgustingly regular with my period occurring every 28 days and with very little pain. However, my new normal became a shorter cycle occurring more frequently and resulting in much more discomfort and intermittent spotting. I’m sure my hormones went a little haywire with the fluctuations too, and I paid my doctor a visit to ease my concerns.

 

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Instead, I was informed that my reproductive system was doing what it was supposed to do as I aged and my biological clock wound down. My body was releasing the eggs faster and faster, and I wasn’t holding the cells that could nurture a fertilized egg into a successful pregnancy.

 

After Johanna’s news, I bit my tongue and focused on turning my frustrations into support for her. She certainly hadn’t chosen an easy path, but she did love her unborn baby with the same fierceness with which she approached everything else. It was inspiring, but it was also painful to know she had entered a world into which I couldn’t follow.

 

I became an honorary aunt to Johanna’s baby boy, and a few months later I turned forty-one. Forty had been hard, but at least it was a big milestone birthday. No one even pretends to celebrate the individual ones after that. Another passed and then another. Before I knew it was staring the mid-forties in the face, and nothing had changed.

 

I think everyone who knew me could tell I was at the end of my rope, and I’m positive they worried about me. Prim tried to involve me as much as possible in her family’s events, and Johanna continued to treat me as though I really was her sister and the aunt to her child. I pretended that was enough, but it wasn’t. Instead, I fought my own emptiness as I attempted to celebrate their lives. The ever-present ache never really went away unless I intentionally chose to ignore the pain.

 

It was a chance meeting that ended up changing everything. I worked for an advertising firm, and a client came in to explain the product to me more fully so I could tweak the campaign I’d created for his company. Little did I know the meeting would generate an entirely new path to my life.

 

“Mrs. Everdeen?”

 

I glanced up from my computer screen to find the source of the husky, deep voice, and almost choked. The most beautiful shade of blue eyes I’d ever seen were framed by a mop of blonde curls that fell over a tanned forehead. The man’s jaw flexed before his mouth curved into an adorable smile that displayed incredibly charming dimples. It was as if that precious boy from the detergent commercial I’d watched years ago had grown into this fine specimen. My mouth hung open for several seconds before I could regain control.

 

“Y-yes?” I stuttered. When his face fell slightly, I realized my mistake and corrected him. “Sorry, not Mrs. It’s Ms. Ms. Everdeen. I’m not married. Not that you need to know that. I’m so sorry. That wasn’t very professional. But still, I’m definitely single.” Flustered, I snapped my mouth closed and tried not to die of mortification as my cheeks flamed.

 

His face broke into another disarming smile, and he sighed in relief. “That’s good to hear. So am I, although...” He shook his head and laughed. “Not that you need to know that. That wasn’t very professional either. Let’s start over.”

 

“Deal,” I agreed through a wide smile. “I’m Katniss Everdeen.”

 

“Hi,” the Adonis look-alike said and extended his hand for me to shake. “I’m Peeta. Peeta Mellark. I’m here from Capitol Bakery. You have some advertising proofs to show me, if I’m not mistaken.”

 

I’ve always heard about people who meet someone and their world stops, but until that meeting, I really didn’t understand it at all. I’m positive he felt it too because his eyes had widened slightly when he first saw me and his cerulean eyes sparkled as he shook my hand. Surprisingly, there was no electric current when his calloused palm closed over mine, but there was enough power in our locked gazes to charge an entire city for years.

 

Swallowing hard, I was able to regain my professional demeanor in order to welcome him to District 12 Advertising and slip the mockups I’d created for him across my desk. His fingertips brushed my shaking hands as he reached for them, and we locked eyes, my silver ones with his, for a solid ten seconds before he glanced away. I’m forever grateful for his ability to maintain his composure because I almost drooled onto my desk.

 

We discussed the work, and he provided a few suggestions before standing in preparation to leave. I remember my heart fluttered in panic when I thought I’d never see him again, but instead he asked in a gentle voice, “I know this isn’t the most appropriate question, but would you be interested in having dinner sometime?” I could barely contain myself as I agreed, and two nights later we went on our first date.

 

It didn’t take longer than a few weeks before Peeta and I knew we were supposed to be together. Everything in me yearned for him so much that being apart physically hurt. Since we felt as if we were one person, it made logical sense to marry and create someone who was part of both of us. Unfortunately, we were already well into our mid-forties, so the odds weren’t exactly in our favor to conceive a child naturally.

 

Of course, that didn’t stop us from trying both before and after our wedding. Finally, I was able to feed my craving for physical affection that I hadn’t even really understood I possessed. I hadn’t let anyone get too close since Gale and I parted ways, so Peeta’s heat against mine felt so incredibly good. Peeta loved to hug me, and he loved to hold me more. His kisses rained onto my lips, and his strong arms cradled me to him as his naked body pressed against mine. He worshipped me with his hands and lips, and I found paradise with him inside me.

 

I relished in the sound of him as he pounded into me, the groans and grunts rumbling from his chest and ripping from him as he found his release. He swallowed my wanton cries as he repeatedly drove me to completion. Our sex life became something to celebrate in ways that could have edited every how-to guide for a happy marriage, and with it, everything else improved too. We talked and laughed and worked and played together so intimately it seemed as if our souls were only parts of each other.

 

If love had been enough, we would have been graced with a houseful of children, but maybe I’d already received my blessing in my soulmate. We tried for a few months before it dawned on me that it might not happen. I thought (or tried to convince myself) that I would have been fine with a family of two, but Peeta wanted them so badly, and I longed to give him everything.

 

It was when I skipped a period the month before my forty-fifth birthday that I thought I’d conceived. I was two weeks late when I decided to take a pregnancy test. I’d never used any type of birth control except condoms, and Peeta and I hadn’t bothered with those since our first few times together. There was no one else for either of us, and at our age, a baby wasn’t something we could easily delay without taunting Mother Nature.

 

I don’t think I realized how much I wanted to carry Peeta’s child until I saw the test result. The pink negative sign hit me so hard my knees buckled, and I had to grab onto the sink in order to remain upright. A desperate sob ripped from my chest, and I sank down to the edge of the tub as howls of grief wracked my body. I tried to hold myself together with my arms crossed over my chest, but nothing could ease my anguish.

 

Peeta found me when he came home from his evening run. I’d slipped from my perch and was slumped on the floor with my back against the cold porcelain. My tears had dried into jagged tracks, and I could barely hold my head up from the pain. He gathered me to him and held me until he could pry the useless wand from my fingers. When he saw the negative, his eyes filled with tears, and he buried his face in my shoulder for a few seconds as he processed the news.

 

Thankfully, Peeta is mentally stronger than anyone I know, and he pulled himself together quicker than I could have or did. He picked me up and carried me to our bed where he held me until I fell into a fitful sleep. I woke screaming several times during the night, but his arms comforted me every time. It was only the next morning that he smoothed my hair from my face and broke the silence.

 

“Katniss, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even know you were thinking it might have happened. Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

The softness in his voice would have caused me to break down again if I’d had any tears left to give, but I was dry. My chest ached with a hollowness I didn’t know existed, and I managed to gasp as I shook my head, “I’m sorry for disappointing you.”

 

His face crumpled at my confession and evasion of the question, and he bit his bottom lip to hold back his own tears. “Maybe it would be a good idea to make an appointment. See if anything’s wrong,” he suggested. I tensed against him. The thought of an examination after such a significant disappointment sickened me.

 

“I don’t want to,” I grumbled into his chest, unwilling and unable to meet his eyes.

 

“Katniss, look at me,” he commanded in a gentle, but firm, voice. When I finally raised my gaze to his, he spoke calmly and with authority. “I love you, sweetheart. So much that I want a dozen babies with you, but I want you safe and happy and healthy more than anything else. Let’s see what’s going on. Just in case.”

 

 _Just in case_.

 

Those words rang through my mind as I gave him the go-ahead to contact my doctor and schedule an appointment. They echoed in my chest when my period started the next day. They haunted me in my dreams as I imagined hearing news of cervical cancer or worse. The potential of not being able to give Peeta a child of his own was terrifying, but the possibility of being sick was even more horrifying as the days passed until I could see the doctor.

 

Peeta, the ever doting husband, went with me and held my hand through the procedure. He waited with me as the tests were run and we tried to keep ourselves from going crazy during the days until the results came back. What I appreciated more than anything was his steady presence when Dr. Aurelius gave us the news.

 

“Katniss, Peeta, it’s good to see you,” he said in greeting as we entered his office. I probably should have realized what was coming since I wasn’t in an examining room but sitting in a leather armchair facing his desk as he flipped through my file.

 

“Likewise, Doctor.” Peeta was unflappable. Always. I don’t know how he did it.

 

“Unfortunately, I don’t have the best news,” Dr. Aurelius began. “Katniss, your body has reached its pre-menopausal state.”

 

My heart sank at his words, and I clutched my husband’s hand tightly. I didn’t want to hear what hid in that file, but I also couldn’t bear not knowing.

 

“What does that mean?” I asked and tried to control the tremor in my voice.

 

He looked at me, his face serious, before speaking again. I glanced sideways at Peeta and saw the effort with which he tried to keep his face clear. I knew that was for my benefit, and that made what came next hurt even worse.

 

“It means your body has expelled almost all of your viable eggs. It would be virtually impossible for you to conceive at this point.”

 

I’ll admit that I whimpered at his announcement. Realistically, I know the report wasn’t made to hurt me, but I felt as if a sword of fire cut through my chest when I heard the words. Peeta’s hand continued to hold mine, but I couldn’t bear to glance at my husband. I knew if I saw the pain he surely felt, I’d collapse under the weight of disappointing the man I loved more than my own life.

 

Dr. Aurelius looked at us both with sympathy pooling in his eyes before explaining, “I wish I could give you better news, but the simple explanation for what happened is that your reproductive system is fighting over whether or not to continue to ovulate and menstruate or to stop altogether. It’s somewhat early for your cycle to stop altogether, but the absence of healthy eggs is causing the problem.”

 

At that, Peeta finally spoke, his voice harsh and broken. “So there’s really no chance?”

 

The older man crossed his hands on the desktop and shook his head regretfully. “I’m a man of science, Mr. Mellark, but I also believe in miracles. Unfortunately, you and your wife are going to need one for this to happen. I wish I could give you better news, but…”

 

“Give it to me bluntly,” I begged, desperate for something to make the news real so I could believe it and begin the process of accepting something that was too horrific to be true.

 

“Bluntly—time’s up.”

 

We wandered from the doctor’s office to our car, and somehow Peeta managed to drive us home. When we were parked safely in the garage, he made no attempt to exit the car. He sat, his hands lying listlessly in his lap, without expression.

 

“Peeta,” I urged him in a whisper, “please talk to me.” Everything stood still as he slowly turned to stare at me. The haunted glint in his eyes shook me to my core.

 

“What do you want me to say?” he asked in a voice I barely recognized as his.

 

We stared at each other for several moments before I could put into words what my fears really were, and I hated myself when I recognized them.

 

“That you still love me.”

 

Because that was my most deeply seated fear. I didn’t want him to stop caring about me because I couldn’t carry a child that was his. I didn’t want him to cast me to the side, even though I was his soulmate, because another woman could welcome him inside her and have his baby. I didn’t want to lose him because I was useless to him.

 

I shouldn’t have been surprised when he exited the car immediately and entered the house. He returned in minutes having changed into shorts, a t-shirt, and his running shoes. He was around the block before I could process that he hadn’t answered.

 

His normal thirty minute run stretched into an hour, and then two, and finally three before I heard the front door open and his irregular tread on the hardwood floor. Somehow I’d dragged myself from the garage to the living room and sat with my back to the door and staring at the wall in an attempt to not think or feel.

 

He entered the room, but I didn’t turn my head to look at him. I jumped slightly when his gentle hands landed on both my shoulders and squeezed slightly. I responded automatically, raising my right hand to cover his and waited.

 

“I still love you.”

 

Another thing I’ve always heard about is the feeling of intense joy mixed with brokenness and how you can find one in the other. It’s something else I never really understood until that moment—when the elation of knowing my husband’s love was never-ending juxtaposed against the agony of losing a lifelong dream.

 

I don’t remember much of the immediate aftermath; just that I wailed hopelessly while Peeta held me to him, my face buried in his sweaty chest. When my tears gave way to soft sniffles, he wiped my face and kissed me until we joined together. Our bodies spoke in a way neither of us could, offering forgiveness and acceptance and understanding when words had failed us.

 

Afterward, we lay together, comforted by our act, and finally Peeta found his voice again.

 

“I didn’t leave because I don’t love you,” he began. “I left because you doubted me. How you could ever believe how I feel about you is based on contingencies?”

 

His fingers tangled in my hair and worked to unwind my unkempt braid. I could barely keep my eyes open at the soothing gesture, but I still registered everything he was saying.

 

“Sweetheart, nothing will ever make me stop loving you. I’m yours. Always.”

 

The words poured from him then. He admitted his disappointment but also his sorrow that I felt guilty. He suggested finding another method by which we could try for biological children, and if those didn’t work, he declared that he was open to pursuing adoption. He kept talking, so long that I couldn’t take anymore. I was still much too raw to consider anything other than Dr. Aurelius’ words and my crushed heart.

 

The next day was hard, the day after that harder still, but I came back to life slowly over the course of several months. Some nights I woke screaming and thrashing from nightmares, and some days I didn’t want to talk to anyone, not even Peeta, because I hurt so much.

 

To his credit, Peeta didn’t waver. I know he fought his own demons as he grew older too. I know he had to deal with his own disappointments, but he didn’t push me to consider anything before I was ready. He simply allowed me to heal as he put himself back together too.

 

I’ll admit I never really thought about how infertility impacts the male partner before we discovered we couldn’t have our own children. Prim spent considerable time making sure I worked through my pain, but Peeta really didn’t have anyone to help him except me—and I wasn’t the best at supporting him because it only increased my own anxiety.

 

He spent more time with our niece and nephew after we got our news. He ran more, painted more, baked more, and worked more. He did everything more to fill the void I knew we both felt. Several times I entered a room and caught him gripping the furniture, his knuckles white, as he fought through his own sadness and disappointments. If I’d been able to break out of my own funk, I would have been able to help him heal.

 

The clock inside my head kept ticking, but the passage of time no longer held any urgency for me. I already felt it was too late to hurry. We had another couple of close calls, but, not surprisingly, neither case resulted in a miracle pregnancy. By the time I was ready to acknowledge our situation, we could hardly find an IVF clinic that would treat us since the chances were so slim. We also attempted to harvest what eggs I had left in case a surrogate was the answer, but that option failed too. After we exhausted every resource and possibility we had, we had a frank discussion about adoption and fostering a child.

 

Maybe I’m a horrible person—okay, it’s not really maybe—but I didn’t know if I was ready to face the potential pitfalls of that process. Peeta and I were in our late forties at that point, and I didn’t know if I could open myself up to the pain of losing out on a child again. We were warned by so many people of mothers changing their minds or international adoptions going wrong and not being able to bring a child back into the country after spending thousands of dollars to do so. Fostering should have provided a wonderful option, but I couldn’t accept that I’d only have a child for a short period of time before the potential arose that he or she would be taken from me and placed somewhere else. I just couldn’t do it.

 

Peeta understood, but it was awful to finally admit my insecurities and fears to him. We celebrated my forty-eighth birthday with an agreement that it would just be the two of us in our family. It wasn’t a good birthday present, but can it ever really be to lose something so inherently human?

 

Not everybody wants to be a parent, realistically I know that, but I did—even if I realized it too late for it to actually happen. Peeta would have been a better father than almost any man I’ve ever known, but he was robbed of the chance by falling in love with me. He’d never admit that. He only says that I make his life better in every way, and I struggle to believe him every single day.

 

The year we turned fifty, we made a pact. We vowed to stop waiting to try new things. We promised to take advantage of what life still had to offer us. We created a bucket list and began crossing off the items one by one. We vowed to embrace everything life could offer us since we lost the thing we wanted the most besides each other.

 

For us, time is never up.

**Author's Note:**

> My sincere thanks to Fandom4LLS for organizing such an important fundraiser to fight cancer (a disease I hate with my entire being). A huge thank you to Jackie (@jennagill) and Lisa (@myusernamehere) for their beta skills, Caryn (@papofglencoe) for pre-reading, and Any (@loving-mellark) for the gorgeous banner.


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